


Red Wine

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 16:14:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3256301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos has Aramis recreate the gunshot at the barrel of wine, for entirely different reasons than before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Wine

**Author's Note:**

> ... Obviously based on the interrogation scene in 2x02. Because I am truly portamis trash and proud of it. Yep, not much else to say beyond that... just some quick pwp.

It’s later, much later, before Porthos grasps Aramis by the wrist and tugs him down and away from the garrison, down into the wine cellar in the far corner, mostly used for food storage than anything else – and Aramis goes with him, eyebrows lifting in amusement, already knowing the reason for it. (It’d been his idea, after all.) But he’s hardly one to protest and hardly one to say no to the idea of it, in any case. Things are resolved with the king, as much as they can be, and while there’s a kind of heaviness in Aramis’ heart ever since the christening, he at least can find some happiness in the curve of Porthos’ secretive smile, the way the light hits his hair in the early afternoon, or simply the slope of his shoulders as he moves with a practiced ease, sure and certain in the fact that Aramis is following him. It’s difficult to be fully miserable when Porthos is laughing or smiling or looking at him like for all the world, this will never be enough. 

He can remember the look on Porthos’ face when the well-aimed shot over his shoulder hit the barrel of wine during the barkeep’s interrogation, the delighted grin he’d worn as he seized a goblet for himself and collected some of the spoils simply for the showmanship of it. Porthos is never one to miss an opportunity to show off, especially when it’s a matter of playing off of Aramis’ abilities (how often has Aramis watched Porthos’ delight at Aramis’ own skills, after all). The wine poured out of that barrel easily and he’d looked as if he might actually drink it if not for Athos’ instructions and tossed axe. He’d looked at Aramis with a heavy sort of promise and Aramis knows he was looking at him the same way. 

He’d watched Porthos pick up that axe like it was easy, Athos’ voice liquid and restrained in the dark tavern. 

And now, Porthos is pulling him down into the underground and it’s dim and dark and Aramis can’t help but smile as Porthos closes the door behind them and his sure fingers throw the lock. Aramis tips his chin up as Porthos slides into his personal space, his hands reaching out to splay over his hips, breathing out as Porthos ducks his head and licks at his throat. Already he’s trembling with it and could easily be fucked up against this door if Porthos was motivated enough to get their weapons off in time for it. 

“If someone hears the shot,” Aramis begins in some kind of mild protest. 

Porthos just laughs. “Come on. Like being overheard ever stopped you before.”

And Aramis laughs, too, because – well. Good point. He pushes Porthos back enough so he can shed his coat and belts, setting his weapons down carefully and fetching his arquebus from the strap over his shoulder. He rolls up his sleeves and fiddles with his braces absently, partly because he likes the way Porthos’ eyes drag down over him in promise. 

“The Captain will have our heads for wasting the wine,” Porthos says but also doesn’t seem too disappointed or discouraging from continuing – and of course he wouldn’t be. He grins over at Aramis and Aramis can’t help but do the same back, feeling giddy with it. It shouldn’t be quite so thrilling to be looked at the way that Porthos looks at him, dark and heavy but gentle – but, well, it is and Aramis isn’t about to protest it. 

“How could it be a waste when I’ll get to see you like this?” Aramis tuts in a simpering little smile. 

Porthos laughs again, louder this time, but shifting into something a little more weighted as he leans back against the door, looking him up and down. 

“Flattery, Monsieur?” he asks, muffling a grin the best he can and unable to restrain the gleeful look he casts Aramis’ way. Aramis breathes out once – his heart twisting up to see him so happy. 

“You love it,” Aramis says, easily, and shifts a bit to jut one hip out as he leads his arquebus over his shoulder in an adopted nonchalance. He keeps his eyes on Porthos as he licks his lips once, slides his fingers over the weapon and lifts his eyebrows once in silent permission. Porthos gives the smallest of nods. 

When the shot rings out and he hears the gush of wine behind him, Aramis is only half-paying attention, because he can’t keep his eyes off Porthos. He watches the way Porthos straightens from the door and approaches him, his fingers twining into his hair and dragging his head backward so he bares his throat to Porthos. He’s already breathless when Porthos starts backing him up across the room. He leans in once and nips at the slope of his neck and Aramis makes a soft, pleading sound before he can stop it. 

Porthos pushes up against the barrels of wine stacked to the far wall, and he shivers with the chill of the red wine spilling down onto his shoulder. His shirt will be ruined, which is just as well since he wore his least favorite today just for the occasion. 

He forgets sometimes how strong Porthos is – but these moments always remind him. Porthos’ hands haul back Aramis’ hips and he turns him, presses him up against the barrels and presses up to him in turn so that they’re together back-to-front. Aramis arches his back, hands pressing to the barrels. Aramis leans heavily against the barrels for support and balance. He loves how quickly and deliciously reminded he can be when it comes to Porthos’ strength and he tilts his chin up and looks at him over his shoulder. Some wine splashes across his shoulder and falls down over his chest. 

Porthos’ hands stray up under his shirt, untucking it from his trousers, and it’s slicked with wine. His touch is warm and possessive and he’s petting over his stomach and chest and down over his hips. Aramis trembles slightly, from the chill in the air and from the expectation of Porthos’ touch, gentled despite the callous-rough fingers pressing against him, despite the far more insistent press of Porthos’ half-hard cock against the curve of his backside. 

Porthos nuzzles to the back of his neck and when he shifts to kiss along the line of his jaw, a splash of wine hits his cheek and Aramis goes breathless with it. The barrel’s supply is already dwindling from the shot, a steady drizzle more than anything else, but nothing tastes sweeter than the curve of Porthos’ smile as they kiss, Aramis lapping wine from his lips. 

And then Porthos cups him through his trousers and Aramis lets out a raw sound of surprise. He bucks up against the touch, hands pressing to the barrels to keep himself upright as he rocks back against Porthos and forward into his hand at once, completely shameless for the attention. 

“Already impatient,” Porthos says in his ear, but he also sounds eager, grateful for the chance to press closer to him – he almost sounds as shaken as Aramis feels, heavy with his desire and lust, drunk more on Porthos than the wine. 

“It’s a testament to you, my love,” Aramis reminds him around a breathless laugh. 

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees, quiet as he nuzzles to his neck. They rut like that together, Aramis circling his hips back against his cock while Porthos’ palm drags down over him in turn. They’re quiet save for soft, breathless sounds – a quiet keening from Aramis, a breathless huff of surprise from Porthos when Aramis rocks back, harsh, against him. Porthos kisses and licks down over his neck and shoulder. Aramis’ tunic is soaked through now, stained, and he doesn’t care – the trembles and shivers that drag down his spine are from pleasure, not from cold. It stains down his clothes like an open wound, but the smell is sweet – and sweeter still is the full press of Porthos against him, that constant reassurance that he isn’t alone. That Porthos wants him, too. 

“Porthos,” he whines out once and Porthos bites at his ear and kisses down his jaw. When Aramis turns his head to lick and kiss at him as best he can, he tastes wine and tastes Porthos’ smile. 

“You like it like this,” Porthos says, half to himself. Even despite their times pressed together in frenzied pursuit of getting off as quickly as possible, and even despite their times pressed together in quiet exploration that lasted for what felt like hours – despite all these times, Porthos can never quite hide the honest, pleased wonder in his voice when he’s with Aramis, when he unravels Aramis piece by piece. Aramis delights in coaxing that breathless gasp of words from him every time. 

It’s enough for Aramis to feel over-warm and he makes a quiet pleading sound as he rocks his hips back, desperate to get his clothes off. Desperate to feel him. Desperate to hear his laughter vibrating through his body just from where they’re pressed skin to skin. 

“Yes,” he says, breathless, in answer to Porthos’ words and squirms a little so he can drop a hand down, so he can tug at the braces holding his trousers up, sighing out when Porthos’ hand move over him in assistance, untucking his shirtsleeves the rest of the way and sliding his trousers and undergarments down. They get shoved down to his knees and stay there and Porthos presses to him. Aramis bites at his lip and holds back a delighted moan as hands brush down over his hips and over his stomach. 

He wants him to touch his cock again and he mumbles as much, tipping his chin up and letting his hair fall away from his eyes as he looks at Porthos – who’s looking distracted as Aramis licks his lips. His eyes are darkened and he’s smiling a little, looking breathless, looking just as affected as Aramis feels. 

A hand curls around him carefully (always so slow and careful, his Porthos, even when being rough like this – and half the time Aramis isn’t sure if it’s only because Porthos is always gentle or if some small part of him likes to see Aramis squirm for it). The fingers curl tight around him and squeeze before stroking him from tip down to base. 

“Should have – mm,” Aramis sighs out as he rocks into his hand, “—brought oil or something along.” 

“Why, Monsieur,” Porthos whispers against the shell of his ear, nibbling a little as he strokes him a little faster, a little harder. And – God, Aramis loves it when he teases him like this, with touch and words. “How utterly _crude_ of you to suggest such a thing. You want me to fuck you like this?” 

“It might have crossed my mind, _Monsieur_ ,” Aramis simpers, laughing around his breathlessness. He reaches a hand back and cups Porthos’ hip, draws him in closer against him and humming out. “How scandalous of me, I know.” 

“You should have said something,” Porthos laughs and bites down his neck, licking at the stray drops of wine and dipping down along his shoulder. Aramis sighs out.

He laughs, quiet, rocking his hips. “Porthos… please.” 

“Hmm,” Porthos replies, absently, and his hands are moving over him in a deliriously distracting way. A hand runs through his hair, down over his back, along his hips and sides. Aramis makes soft, pleased sounds as he does that, arching and squirming and sighing out when Porthos presses kisses over his neck and shoulder. 

The wine is pooling down around their feet and it’s a complete mess but Aramis doesn’t care – the barrel is emptying below the line of fire his arquebus left in the lid and Aramis reaches up, fumbles, opens the lip so that it all starts pouring out again over him and he gasps out and shivers from the chill of the wine on his skin. 

Porthos laughs and drinks the wine off his skin and he just keeps touching and touching him. Aramis widens his stance, angles his hips, rocks back against him shamelessly, his cock hard and aching for touch, wishing he really _had_ thought to bring oil so that Porthos could spread him open and fuck into him right there against the barrels of wine. 

Then Porthos shifts back and away from him and Aramis almost protests before he hears the shift and slide of clothes falling away behind him. Aramis cranes his neck, looks over his shoulder so he can watch as Porthos slides his coat down off his shoulders, undoes the belt to his trousers and slides up against him, cock hard and nestling into the crease of his ass. Aramis shivers and arches with a low moan. He wishes there was more to slick the way, wishes that those thick, perfect fingers could fuck into him, spread him open, leave him a trembling, shuddering mess. 

“You’re so pretty,” Porthos says softly, and his tone is warm and affectionate and like an embrace as he slides up against him, arms curling around him and pressing splayed out across his chest and stomach, heated and comforting around the slow cascade of cold wine. His beard drags down over his neck as he kisses and nuzzles and they’re pressed body to body and Aramis is loving him and this and everything to the point of irrationality – as he does for all things. 

“I know,” he whines out, laughs a little and wriggles his hips to try to coax Porthos into moment. Porthos’ breath hitches against the line of his jaw and he jerks his hips forward, thrusting against him a little, seeking that friction. “No, no,” he whines out when Porthos pauses, when the thick slide of Porthos’ cock presses against him but brings no relief from that rutting. “Let me turn around.” 

Porthos withdraws enough for Aramis to do so, turning and leaning up against the barrels and heaving out a sigh as he takes in Porthos – looks at him, drinks him in. He looks as disheveled as Aramis feels: eyes dark and warm, hands reaching out to drag down over him, his shirt stained with some stray wine across the shoulders and down near his clavicle. Aramis drags his eyes down to the slump of his trousers, stuck down at his upper thighs. The thick, perfect curve of his cock. 

Aramis tilts his head and murmurs his name, calls him in closer, and Porthos steps up to him, presses up to him. He picks him up as best he can with the tangle of clothes between them and presses to him until their cocks catch and slide together and Aramis whimpers while Porthos moans. He can’t manage to curve his leg around his thighs like he’d wish, with the constriction of his trousers, and settles for running his foot up the back of his calf instead. 

“You really should have brought oil,” Porthos murmurs. 

“Mm,” Aramis agrees, hates for his own lack of control and his own lack of planning, and writhes against him. “There are other ways… but I believe you lack the proper patience for such things, my love.” 

“Probably,” Porthos agrees.

Aramis laughs, breathless. He rolls his hips up and drags his hand down over the two of their cocks, curling around both and stroking in turn to the small thrusts both he and Porthos make as they press together. 

Porthos lifts his hand, cups the back of his head to keep it from knocking back against the barrel, and his callous-roughed fingers rub against his scalp like a reward, leaving Aramis issuing out small keening whimpers as he moves, adjusting the angle of their bodies. At the sound, Porthos chuckles, rich and honeyed, and scatters messy kisses over his face and along the line of his jaw, licking when he tastes the wine. 

“Porthos,” Aramis sighs out and rocks up against his hand, a steady in-and-out slide of their cocks between his fingertips. He arches when Porthos pets through his hair, rubs his fingers down the back of his neck. Aramis lets out a little gust of breath, a pleased moan that soon has an answer from Porthos when Aramis squeezes tight around their cocks. 

Even like this, it’s overwhelming, and Aramis shivers a little, shudders, feels helpless just with this – to be fucked easily like this, cherished and loved, used and protected. He’ll never get used to Porthos like this – he’ll never get used to Porthos at all. He never wants to. 

They come like that, pressed together, and it’s embarrassing how over it is and so quickly – when it’s hardly enough to have either of them get started under normal circumstances, when they’re used to drawing it out and chasing each other again and again. But there’s something overwhelming with the smell of wine in the air, the fact they’re just down in the cellar. The door is locked, but Aramis still feels the thrill, knows he’s loud enough that anyone could hear him as Porthos rocks against him. He spills out over his stomach and fucks hard into his hand with merciless thrusts until Porthos’ hand is covering over his, stroking in time, thumb pressing hard to the cockhead. Aramis cries out and Porthos is coming soon after him, his other hand cupping his hip hard so he can fuck against him until he’s spent. 

Aramis gasps for breath, rests his forehead against Porthos’ shoulder and tries to breathe around his moans, feeling boneless and limp in the wake of his orgasm. He knows that Porthos will hold him up. He slings his free arm around him, holds him close, and when he feels Porthos coming down from his own orgasm, Aramis is tipping his head up to catch his mouth in a messy kiss. Porthos kisses him back, more than willing, as they try to catch their breath. Aramis slumps back against the barrels of wine and Porthos is there with him, crowding into his space, kissing him with his lips curved up into a delighted, satisfied smile. Aramis melts under his attentions when the hand on his hip slips up to stroke over his stomach and chest, making a mess of their soaked shirts and skin. 

They are almost always like this after sex – Porthos petting over him, soothing him and holding him close, and Aramis letting himself melt into the attentions, never wanting anything else but this. He feels half-asleep with it, and when he breathes out, it’s almost a purr as Porthos adjusts his trousers, tugs playfully on his braces. 

Porthos chuckles, quiet and sincere, and he bumps their foreheads together – and his smile is bright and gentle in the dim light of the cellar, and Aramis feels warmed from the inside out. 

“Good?” Porthos murmurs, sweet and thick with love. 

Aramis nods, breathing out, lets himself relax, lets himself be loved. “Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found on my [tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/) for whatever reason!


End file.
